found
by m-erechyn
Summary: A scene from Grimmauld Place. Remus makes a pot of tea. Sirius interferes, but not in that way. " He supposes he doesn’t mind. It’s enough to stay here, and live, and care." Remus/Sirius, OotP-era, bittersweet slash.


Disclaimer: The HP-verse isn't mine; the song mentioned later in the fic is Terry Pratchett's creation.

_A/N: I wrote this quite some time ago, and haven't gotten around to posting it here until now. Regardless-- this is sort of a detail/character/relationship study, an attempt to draw the whole picture using short strokes and careful lines. (Aha. Bad metaphor.) I have no idea if it worked._

_This is also my first try at non-MWPP fic-- I'm not sure if there's a time period for this one; let's say it's set somewhere in OotP. It's one of those stolen moments that could happen at any time._

_Thanks for reading, as always, and feedback is forever appreciated!_

* * *

The kitchen in Grimmauld place isn't very well-lit these days, partly because the charms illuminating the shadowy sconces along the walls have failed, and partly because Remus goes there to think (as well as make breakfast, and lunch, and dinner, and any other meals Sirius will forget if someone doesn't bring food to him).

Remus likes the dimness of the kitchen, likes the warm-yellow glow and the privacy, the closeness of it all. He could easily renew the charms, turn the kitchen into a place of brightness and light, but for the moment he prefers the orange tones of dusk.

He's standing at the sink, now, idly washing the few used plates and sorting through shelves, some of which haven't been seen by human hands for years. Remus cleans when he's pensive—on his most introspective days, his flat is spotless.

Of course, he's not living in his flat anymore; it's been sold, and quickly, too, undoubtedly with some strings pulled by Albus. Now he's living in Grimmauld Place, all cold halls and dark rooms and darker secrets, and just two people breathing the rarefied air: Remus and Sirius.

- - - - -

"Remus?"

Sirius's voice is too rough, even after two years of life on the outside. And worse, it's too quiet, too small in this vast drafty house. He hates living here, of course; he hates Grimmauld Place with all his heart, or what's left of it at any rate.

Half of it went to James and Lily—more James than Lily, he'll joke sometimes, in a particularly painful incarnation of Black humor, but Remus knows that Sirius has grieved far too long for both, in the years after their passing.

They don't speak of Peter. They never do.

And the other half went to Harry. The boy they've both looked after, in one form or another, through lessons and secret gifts and hopeful, doggy faithfulness. Never wavering. Even now, on the stormy days when Ron and Hermione shake their heads hopelessly and retreat to their own corners, their own families, Harry has always been the boy who lived and who, now, Sirius lives for.

Remus doesn't know where he fits in with this doomed hierarchy, doesn't know if he still has a place in the ranks of Sirius's affections or if he'd ever been there at all. The days of their youth are too far away and long gone besides, now existing only in the old photographs he's charmed to the walls and the few memories that haven't been crowded out by loneliness.

He supposes he doesn't mind. It's enough to stay here, and live, and care.

"Yes?"

For a moment Remus hopes for a revelation, an epiphany in technicolor—something true and beautiful and hopelessly profound emerging from those pale lips. But then the dim tint of reality washes back over the world, as it always does, and Sirius's question is as sensible as pen-and-ink.

"Do we have any tea?"

Remus smiles, finally putting down a plate he's already dried three times. Of course they have tea. "I'll make you some."

"Thanks." A pause. Sirius walks over, joins Remus at the counter. Remus is struck by how _small_ the other man is—not just shorter than him; that's something they've gotten used to, over the years they've known each other—but thinner, and something other than that. As though Sirius has lost something essential, something that made him as big as he'd always seemed to Remus.

And he has, of course; he's lost twelve years of his life and a good deal of his old self, and the loss shows in the set of his shoulders and the look in his eyes.

The days have been too busy and too few, these past years. Remus has traveled all over Europe, looking for clues, making peace in this time of secrecy and illusion. He has spent so little time in this place—not home, it doesn't feel like home, he hasn't had a proper home for _years_—that even now seeing Sirius is a shock. Some small part of Remus hasn't registered the change, and he glances over expecting to see a boy or at the very least the darker, harsher young man Sirius had been during those times of deception.

"What kind do you want?"

Remus remembers that at school, Sirius always drank English Breakfast, regardless of the time of day. He'd add milk and honey in equally horrifying quantities, ensuring that no one else—save Remus, perhaps, with his awful sweet tooth—would steal a sip.

"Darjeeling," Sirius answers, after a moment. "Please."

Sirius's preferences must have changed, Remus realizes. And curious, too, because Darjeeling had always been _his_ favorite—even now, he brewed a cup when there was nothing else to do, if only for the mild, floral taste on his tongue and the warmth of the mug in his hands.

He moves to the other side of the kitchen, hands finding the cupboard easily. The cache of tea was something Remus had organized near the beginning of his stay, it being crucial to his well-being. He pulls open the door—his reflection showing briefly in a silver service that he has always been very careful not to touch—and searches for the sachets of tea. They're nothing compared to loose leaves, of course, but Remus doesn't feel as though he and Sirius warrant the expense of high quality beverages, especially with finances stretched as is.

Packets found, Remus lays them on the counter, and takes the kettle from the stove to fill it with water. He could boil it with magic, even conjure a perfect cup of tea with his wand, no china or copper needed, but there's a comfort in the motions, a reassurance in the monotony. And he's always thought that tea was best the muggle way, no matter what anyone said to the contrary.

"I thought you always drank English Breakfast," he says conversationally, over the sound of running water.

"I did," Sirius replies. "You remembered?"

The kettle fills a third of the way—Remus figures it's enough, these days Sirius never drinks or eats anything more than half of what he's given—and he turns off the tap.

"Of course," Remus answers. "You always put in far too much sugar. And I always drank Darjeeling." He puts the kettle on the stove, and taps it alight with his wand; it's the only magical aspect of this ritual.

"Yes," Sirius says. "I remembered that."

That must have been why he asked for it, Remus thinks. Sirius would know that Remus would always have some in stock, no matter where he lived. Though that's untrue: during the weeks he spent far up north, searching for signs of alliance, Remus only lived in hotels and rented rooms. Nobody had ever heard of Darjeeling, so instead he took English Breakfast with milk and honey and sipped it while thinking of Sirius.

Sirius runs his fingers back and forth along the smooth granite edge of the countertop. "James didn't drink tea. He liked pumpkin squash, said it was more manly—and Lily—"

He thinks for a moment longer, eyes fixed on the staccato tones that spiral up and down the stone, then looks up at Remus, panicked.

"She liked Earl Grey the best," Remus quickly fills in. "With lemon."

"Oh," Sirius says, his eyes dropping to the counter again. "That's right."

They don't speak of Peter—they never do—and the kettle comes to a boil in near-perfect quiet. Sirius has fallen into thoughtfulness again, or else hopelessness, though Remus hopes it's the former, for obvious reasons. And Remus understands better than to make idle conversation; Sirius has never been fond of small talk, and so their silence, though stretched, is not unpleasant or uncomfortable.

Harry doesn't drink tea, either, Remus knows. He likes pumpkin squash, like James. But Harry isn't James, and that's why he and Sirius have to—

Steam rises from the spout of the kettle, and it whistles an old wizarding tune.

Remus smiles. He'd charmed the melody into the kettle soon after he discovered the kitchen, so that it wouldn't screech the Black genealogy every time he wanted cocoa or tea. It's a song he remembers from the Hogwarts days, and he's certain Sirius will recognize it, too.

"You charmed the kettle to sing 'A Wizard's Staff has a Knob on the End?'" Sirius asks, at the first few notes. Remus nods his head graciously. Sirius grins, the darkness broken. His smile isn't beautiful anymore, not like it used to be. But it's a smile nonetheless, and Remus is grateful for that. "Brilliant idea."

They aren't children anymore, of course, and by all reasoning they should be far too mature to enjoy this sort of thing, but they can reminisce. Before James so generously re-wrote it, the song was one of Dumbledore's favorites. After the revision, it was banned from Hogwarts grounds, though it enjoyed several revivals, James always leading the chorus, conducting the crowd with a flourish.

Memory, Remus knows, is important. It's why he's done these little things, like charming the teakettle and putting old photos on the walls and remembering his classmates' beverage preferences. The more a body can hold on to, the longer it stays. Remus does it for himself, of course, but more importantly he does it for Sirius.

He takes the kettle from the stove, taps the heat off with his wand. Sirius opens and closes cupboards, looking for cups—he's not used to this kitchen—and finds two mugs that seem passably clean. There used to be porcelain in this house, pure white and emblazoned with an inky Black crest, but most of it has been shattered or gleefully chucked at the walls. Mugs hold more, anyway.

"Are these all right?" he asks. Remus nods and Sirius sets the cups down with a _thunk_.

The noise is almost too harsh, loud in the warm yellow light of the kitchen, and for the briefest of moments Sirius's shoulders rise up, a defense against nothing he can see. Then he eases back into reality: finding the tea on the counter, tearing each packet open, placing a bag of leaves in the bottom of each mug. The motions are therapeutic; merely the calm business of making tea.

Remus pours the hot water into each mug, careful not to let it splash; though it's not as though he couldn't heal any burns that might occur. They are magic, after all, him and Sirius. Remus, perhaps, more so, because he turns into a wolf at every moon; but then again Sirius can turn into a dog whenever he wishes, and the sliding and shifting of form doesn't tear him to pieces like it does Remus.

Not that it hurts to change, Remus knows. Not now. Snape provides the Wolfsbane potion, handed over with a curled lip and a raised eyebrow with the post on the Monday of the moon, and Sirius—or is it Padfoot?—one of them is always there on moon nights, at any rate. Another warm body in the next room over, providing a distraction and a glass of water when the sun rises the next morning and Remus's throat feels like hell.

Remus's memories of those nights are dim, despite the Wolfsbane, and though Sirius will not say a word over the breakfast they forget to eat, or make any comment aside from asking if it was _all right this month_, _Remus?,_ Remus is very certain that he was not alone.

He finishes pouring the water, setting the teapot on a ceramic pot-holder. Sirius silently passes him a mug, and their fingertips touch as Remus takes it from the other man's hands. There's an urge to say thank you, but Sirius doesn't like petty pieces of gratitude, and they know each other too well for it to be necessary.

Remus drinks too quickly; the first sip of tea is still weak, more heat than flowers and spice. It burns his tongue, and he inhales sharply. He feels a chill despite the warmth, his body conflicted, hot and cold.

"I wanted to remember," Sirius announces, next to him. Steam rises from the mug in his hands, the water vapor looking like pale ghosts. He hasn't drunk from it yet.

A silence. Remus isn't sure what to say; this kitchen is no place for proclamations. He stands still, holding his mug of Darjeeling, the flash of temperature still sitting on his tongue. Sentences are sitting there, too—paragraphs, even, stories, the novel of their lives—all balanced behind his lips, but it's hard for Remus to find them.

"Remember?" he repeats. It's the only thing he can think of, lamely, and the tip of his tongue aches as the word leaves his mouth.

Sirius sets his mug on the counter. Remus watches the other man turn towards him, and then, so strangely, so unpredictably, walk behind him.

He feels two arms wrap around him; two hands cross over his chest.

The press of Sirius's body against his back tells him that he's alive, that he still feels something beside remorse and worry and sorrow. Remus is suddenly warm, in this cold drafty house.

"Do you remember how we used to fit? Together?" Sirius's voice is unguarded. Hoarse, even. And quiet, a near-whisper, disappearing into imagination. For a moment Remus wonders if this is a dream, and yet there's that warmth that reminds him he is here, now.

Yes. Yes, he remembers. The mornings and the nights, that horrible comforting hidden embrace, Sirius's arms around him, hands over his heart. It was always that way, backwards, awkward and perfect.

"Yes," Remus says. He puts the tea down on the marble countertop, carefully; it makes not a sound. Or perhaps he's too focused on how he can feel Sirius's heartbeat through his shirt, against his skin, steady and stupidly reassuring. "Yes, I remember."

Slowly—so slowly it's almost unbearable—Remus puts his hands on Sirius's, carefully. They're cold, and trembling. But the picture is complete; they are standing the way they stood, so many years ago, their bodies fitting together as they did when they were young.

It doesn't fix anything, this backwards embrace. It doesn't turn back time or heal the new scars that have formed with twelve years and two new lives, separate, detached.

It doesn't answer questions, either. Remus still doesn't know where he falls in the locked chambers of Sirius's heart; doesn't know if he even belongs there, if he deserves a place. He'd like to have those answers, one day, when it's okay to probe and search and ask and _find_.

But now, as Sirius presses a kiss to the fineness at the back of his neck and Remus feels his eyelids fall shut and the kitchen begins to fill with memories and the sweet scent of Darjeeling tea, he knows one thing.

They are here, and they are alive, and they are together.

This, at least, is something. Everything else—the answers—can come later. For now, this is enough.

- - - - -

The kitchen at Grimmauld Place isn't very well-lit these days.

Sometimes it's bothersome, trying to find spoons and forks and the salt-and-pepper set when there's so little light to go by. But that's all right now, because it's just Remus and Sirius in this room and nothing needs looking for. It's already been found.


End file.
